One for All Time

He had almost gotten used to living in that grimy bunker of World War II vintage, grey, impenetrably damp, such as the sun never warmed or broke the musty smell of endless wetness. He had learned when the gendarmes came that he had to take his “walks” with crutches to avoid being scooped up to become the plaything of doctors and veteran’s affairs administrators.

“Non, pas besoin…” he would breathe through tuberculosis-scarred lungs, clinging to what shreds of dignity remained, our food once proferred, he would wait to eat after we left. Wait as heroes wait to be remembered.

I could not wait. I had to put the book down, fascinated with the story weaved for me. What little French I knew was funneled into knowing more of this author: Claude Dupont, a journalist who had written stories about French World War II veterans and how they were systematically neglected and ignored. No one wanted to remember France’s debacle at the hands of the Nazis. The human face of defeat was likewise ignored.

I had dabbled a little in writing stories myself, but once I read this story, I couldn't stop thinking of this older man, living out his dotage as a beggar, such a contrast to my father. He was off somewhere to harpoon a whale or circumnavigate the globe. The hell with him and his adventures, each one greater and more ridiculous than the last one. He’d write now and again, and I’d toss his postcards in odd places so my wife would comment and say, “Scrapbook him, why don’t you?” Then she would trundle off to Michaels to buy the kit I needed.

But I would rather kill a bottle and think of a happier time in France. My mother had long since passed away. Even my son was at university, so far away that curling up with a Claude Dupont book helped pass the time, fireside burning, my heart aflame with injustice, with suffering so vast that it fairly boggled my mind. How so many were neglected. Forgotten.

“Are you coming to bed, dear?” my wife would say, yawning. “Don’t stay up too late!” My retirement, like my own father’s, allowed such negligence as would alarm a hospital full of doctors, eating whatever, drinking far too much. Type 2 diabetes, gout, dizzy off the couch, nearly everything except what might kill me stone-cold dead!

Then there was this veteran who braved years and years of neglect in that bunker, which turned out to be not far from where I lived as a child in France so long ago. Any excuse to get back to a happier time? They say you can never go home?

“I used to live on Chemin Vert,” I said absently. One day, Google Earth fairly put me in Metz, 3D images and all. It was a revelation.

“What did you say?” my wife asked while puzzling, staring at the dining room table, which had so many pieces jumbled up.

“I used to live…why don’t we go to France?” I said. So that’s what we did.

#

I emailed Claude Dupont when we arrived. Why not? I had nothing to lose. He was a journalist, so his email was on his newspaper byline. Doubtless, he received hundreds of emails every week, but who knows, lightning could strike?

We were on the TGV when I got a reply. We could meet for ten minutes. Don’t be late! His written English was excellent, so I unlike my catastrophic French.

Naturally, our booking for a hotel room in Metz was declined. On the advice of a travel agent, we should have paid in advance as those in the know do. I spent hundreds more to stay at an ornate chateau of a hotel down the street. The service was terrific: very few guests, chocolate on the pillow, gold fixtures, and everyone smiling.

My wife loved it. She would chat everyone up with her fluent French, wearing such fashionable clothes while upbraiding me for dressing so poorly, my garish T-shirt barely covered my ample midriff. I even went jogging in red, white, and blue shorts!

“You look like a tourist! We’ve got to get you proper clothes,” she said. So off we went to buy the best at a proper tailor who sniffed politely when my gut still betrayed my origins.

“A little too much McDonalds, eh?” the tailor jokingly said when I pulled a Calvin Klein across my chest.

“You say, eh? Just like a Canadian?” I retorted. My wife gave me that look—a lecture later, by the look of it.

#

Claude was most hospitable. Although his office looked lived-in, he still pulled up a plastic chair for both of us. My wife started by thanking him for meeting us, but she clarified that I was the reason for our visit. Like my wife, I tried my French, which made Claude frown.

“No need!” he said, impatiently waving his hand. "We will speak in English. How can I help you?”

I brought color printouts of the area where I lived in Metz and described the man I met in the bunker. Then, I told Claude I had read his book about the World War II veterans in Metz.

“When I was eight, I met this very friendly old man. He told me he was a veteran of World War II, just like you described in your book," I said. "We would take food to him, us kids. Then, my parents asked us to invite him to our rental apartment. He declined to eat with us…”

“Of course!” Claude interrupted. “After years of neglect, it is common! Do you know his name?” Claude took a file folder down from one of the shelves that lined all the walls in his office.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t," I answered.

“Where did you live?”

“Chemin Vert, here in Metz. He lived in a bunker, just as you described.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I have it! Monsieur Remi Lafarge. He died in 1982.”

“What did he die of, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Tuberculosis. It is a sad case. But all I have are the notes that I wrote so long ago. Can I help you with anything else?”

“Where is he buried?”

Claude shrugged his shoulders. “He was neglected when he was alive. Imagine how he was treated when he died!”

After checking the time on her watch, my wife abruptly got up. She thanked Claude, as did I.

#

We had just returned from a touristy shopping trip when my wife asked, “Why do you have to go there?”

“I lived there for three years. Wouldn’t you visit just to see how it had changed?”

“No, not unless it meant a lot to me.”

“Well, it does mean a lot to me!” I snapped. “I’ll go alone if I have to!”

“To Chemin Vert. By yourself?”

“It shouldn’t take too long by taxi.”

“It will cost a fortune! You don’t even know how much it will be!”

“I’m going.”

“Fine. Wake me when you come back. I’m exhausted.”

The taxi ride was a long one from downtown Metz to the countryside. Not far from where I was let off, I could see the highway my Dad would take daily to work at the Canadian Forces Base, a piece down that road.

The chestnut trees were gone, but the fields were still there. I remembered the poppies growing in those fields and how I picked them for my mother. Oh, how little I knew about poppies! They would droop and practically die in my hands before I could give them to her! Such fragile flowers!

It looked like all the bunkers were gone, even the little ones that used to line the streets, which were used as power substations when I was a child. Everything had been upgraded except for what I saw in the distance: a large bunker-like structure. I hurried to see it.

As I walked through the fields, I remembered the games we used to play and how kind Remi Lafarge was to us. He listened to our stories when his life was so sad and never complained to us about anything.

Finally, I approached the “bunker.” A prison guard hurried out to talk to me. He looked harried and uncomfortable.

"Qu'est-ce que vous faites ici ?" he demanded. Then he tried to speak in English, “What are you…doing?”

“Vous voulez voir mon passport?” I answered. He shook his head.

Then with tears in my eyes I said, “C’est comme l’enfance pour moi maintenant." After that, I couldn’t think in French, so I continued in English. I used to live here, and I played in these fields.

He teared up, too, this tough-looking prison guard. It was then that I decided to take writing seriously. Such is the power of stories.